


Bound together

by Esbe



Series: The Soldier and The Spy (series) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Temporary Character Death, coping smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock falls down the Reichenbach. Watson and Mycroft spend days looking for him but when they can't they have each other for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound together

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes that both Mycroft and Watson were present in the event of Sherlock's fall. That is not ACD canon which I usually follow, not BBC canon which is how i picture my characters, but rather the Ritchie movie canon I guess (that i have never ever written in and the tS&tS has never ever touched). So suspend all disbelief and imagine it so please.
> 
> I have my Watson refusing to believe that Holmes is dead and Mycroft rather too easily believing it. Again- its how I picture them. Nevertheless do not forget that the whole point of this piece is that I wanted a somewhat mature scene between the two and no other reason.  
> It's a first time, yes. But one of many first times that I have imagined between them.
> 
> The smut remains elusive but I shall continue to strive to get an E rating
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this.

Holmes had been missing now for three days. The water of the falls had been searched downstream as much as was humanly possible. The fact that neither his nor Professor Moriarty’s remains or their effects had been discovered had in a way kept their hopes alive. Doctor Watson was steadfast in his belief that his friend and fellow lodger would dodge even death. Mycroft Holmes was stoic throughout and never let his mask slip.

The last three days, Doctor Watson had spent accompanying one search party or the other, going through the last few days leading to the fall again and again, hunting for a clue, some solution. The last hour though, he had spent wallowing in self-pity and grief, railing against fate and his foolhardy friend. It had taken him some time but he had then shaken it all off and resolved to look anew the next morning.

However, that was not to be. The exercise was the most thorough manhunt that the Swiss authorities and Mycroft Holmes’ resources could engineer. But they could not keep it up indefinitely and the local authorities were suggesting that the search be called off. As he delivered the news later that evening, Mycroft wore the air of a man who had failed his most sacred duty. He choked, struggling to keep the grief out of his voice. He looked so defeated that Watson couldn’t help himself. They were alone and wouldn’t be disturbed till the morning and his urge to comfort this man would no longer be denied.

He reached out to rest one hand on Mycroft’s arm stilling his agitation, and then slowly raised the other to touch his cheek with his fingers. The touch was barely there but there was no mistaking the empathy in his eyes as Mycroft looked into them first dimly, and then searchingly. Then with a soft cry of anguish he grasped and pressed the doctor’s entire hand to his face. His eyes scrunched tight he seemed to be struggling. Watson had never seen him so agitated. He wanted to assure Mycroft that this comfort was his to take whenever wanted and for however long. But he didn’t have any words. In response he simply stroked his thumb, the only digit free, above the corner of the lip. At this a sob tore from Mycroft’s throat and he turned into the caressing palm, burying his mouth at the centre, pressing in, as he once again tried to control himself.

It could have been a mere moment or forever, the doctor didn’t know nor did he care. He merely stood there in that fraction of an embrace.

Mycroft rallied somewhat and slowly straightened. Drawing away their joint hands. He cradled Watson’s in both of his, and looked down as if wondering how that had happened. He skimmed the fingertips with a thumb, and then slowly looked up, his eyes were filled with pain and gratitude. Perhaps it was their shared loss, perhaps it was that he sought his own comfort or perhaps it was simply a culmination of all that had happened between them but the doctor’s patience broke.

Using his hand on Mycroft’s arm he gently pulled him closer, the other anchoring them together, and held him close. Mycroft dropped his head on Watson's shoulder. Watson pulled out his other hand and slowly, as if soothing a frightened child, he stroked Mycroft’s back in circles. As he cradled Mycroft's head, he thought how selfish he was being that he had wallowed in his own grief. He, a mere friend and chronicler, could not imagine a world without that brilliant passionate mind. How much more then a brother’s grief?

Mycroft let out a breath, part sob part relief and rubbed his forehead on the doctor’s shoulder. Then he moved apart just a bit and Watson could look into his face. The pain in those eyes was unbearable! Watson would have done anything to erase it but felt utterly helpless. So he did the only thing that he could, gave the only part he held, he hitched a little higher and pressed his lips against Mycroft’s. With a sob, Mycroft crumbled into the caress. Clinging on to a scrap of life in the face of the cruelty and permanence of death.

They stood there seeking and giving. Sharing their grief and soothing the other’s hurt. A clatter of footsteps beyond their door brought them back to reality. Reluctantly, they broke the embrace. Arms lingered, refusing to draw away, eyes roved, refusing let go the vision. Steeling himself, Watson sucked in his lower lip and took a deep breath as he pushed but a hand span away. The action drew a cry of pain from Mycroft who lunged and pressed their mouths together, parting his lips as they fused. The warm and wet sensation against his mouth was enough to crumble the good doctor’s already shaky resolve. He surged into it, parting his own lips in invitation.

It was all that Watson had imagined and everything that he had been too scared to imagine. The comfort and compassion was there, so was the heat he had craved. It soothed and it hurt in equal measure. Mycroft untangled his hands and used them to cradle the doctor’s face, his touch was all heat and yearning and a promise of all that they dared not utter. They drew closer in unison, answering a call of their bodies and souls.

The kiss was no longer tender. The groans it elicited fuelled it further and they seemed ensnared in a never-ending spiral that fed itself. One of Watson’s hands was trapped between them and Mycroft felt it clutching at his coat. The other was digging into his arm with a grip almost painful. He slid one hand behind his doctor’s head and plunged his tongue into his mouth, seeking and offering, demanding and surrendering. The other hand now slid down to the shoulder and then to the back, exploring and caressing in turns. Watson groaned out loud, he retrieved his hand from between them, pushed himself up on his toes, and using both his hands brought their bodies flush together. Mycroft was bending a little, his legs astride. He felt the doctor through their trousers, on his thigh, well aware that he himself was digging into the edge of Watson's pelvis.

He was sure he would tip over without any effort himself. Another minute or half and it would have surely been over but suddenly Watson stopped and Mycroft’s heart stuttered. Damn! His brother was missing, probably dead and here he was giving in to his basest needs. With his brother’s closest friend and companion, who no doubt was mourning his own loss and had not bargained to have any of this. Reluctantly, as if making his way out of a room full of treacle he moved himself away. Little points of contact tearing at him as if Watson was made of hot steel and pieces of Mycroft’s flesh were searing onto him as he moved away.

Then, abruptly as if plucking out a dagger embedded in his gut he removed himself from the embrace and stood away. Watson gave a small whimper of distress, his eyes opening to search for his missing lover. Breaths still rather short. His confused and dazed eyes grazed Mycroft’s with a soft query.

In turn it confused Mycroft. He wasn’t used to being wrong. “I… I didn’t mean to ... I apologise. It wasn’t my intent…”

“Mycroft.” The soft word halted him. The doctor stepped closer and looked up into his eyes. “Do you want this?” A nod.

“Good. Um… that’s good.” He came closer and laid a hand Mycroft’s breast, “Do you simply want what we were doing or… more?”

“Both…More.”

“I too. And… I do not feel guilty for it. I have faith in Holmes. If we haven’t found him yet, it is simply because he does not want to be found or some such thing. I refuse to believe him dead or even grievously injured. But I too need comfort and warmth tonight. And…” he nervously cleared his throat then before braving words once again, “and I hope I can give the same to you.”

“But…” Mycroft gestured to where they had been a moment before.

Watson’s brow furrowed and he half turned back as if _the problem_ was still standing at the spot indicated. Then he smiled, his frame relaxing, and turned back shaking his head as he explained, “You are rather tall and my shoulder and leg had started to hurt, plus the position wasn’t all that satisfactory.”

Mycroft couldn’t think of a single thing unsatisfactory with their position. Doctor John Hamish Watson had been suckling his tongue and rubbing himself against Mycroft’s thigh, lost to sensation: Mycroft couldn’t picture anything more arousing. Doctor John Hamish Watson had been holding him as if he would never let go, had been in his arms, welcoming his touch: Mycroft couldn’t picture anything more comforting.

He had to clear his fogged brain for a moment before the statement penetrated it. But just as he was about to apologise, the doctor continued in the same soft voice, “The chaise lounge, please. Now.” He dragged the diplomat over, laid over with his back against the arm, flung his legs down the length and pulled Mycroft on top, as if he were afraid that left alone his lover would change his mind. He pushed and pulled to settle Mycroft between his legs and held him tight.

It was insane, it was incredible, they shouldn’t be doing this, and he couldn’t stop. Mycroft was used to being the assertive one in every relationship, in every situation. But now, faced with this unassuming soldier who wore his heart on his sleeve, he felt completely at sea. He could feel the entire length of his soldier’s body beneath him. It was the realisation of his wildest fantasies. But his mind was suddenly crowded with questions. What should he do? Where should he touch? What was allowed? What would he like? And then there were questions he daren’t articulate even in the inner most recesses of his mind.

Even though it had been barely a few seconds, his hesitation made Watson growl with impatience and he drew his head down into an open mouthed kiss. He licked into Mycroft’s mouth caressing and teasing. Then, when they were both breathless again, he withdrew slightly, deduced his lover and whispered, “Anything, everything, however long you want.”


End file.
